


Dark Circles

by jemrio



Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemrio/pseuds/jemrio
Summary: After his first mission with the team, Amir finds some common ground with someone he never expected.





	1. Chapter 1

Amir’s been in Turkey all of eight days when the team is activated for his first mission with them; he’s spent the time organizing and reorganizing the daunting collection of tactical gear he’d been issued upon arrival to the Incirlik Airbase. Racks of nondescript civvies suited to different climates clutter the floor  near the weapons cache, but those he’s used to. He slides a few hangers of his size to one end of a rack. What gives him pause are the fatigues, the layers of bulletproof vests and body armor. The camouflage patterns stand out as he regards the clothing with sneaking apprehension.

 

It’s not like he hadn’t known what he was getting himself into when he accepted the DIA transfer; Dalton’s briefings had been extensive to say the least, on top of the weeks of thorough combat refreshers and specialized training after he’d been cleared.

Physically, the training was demanding, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The difficult part for Amir was rearranging the way he mentally approached situations from the covert to the tactical.

 

_“Look, Amir, I want you on this team because of why you're different from the rest of us. If you can bring another dimension to the way we approach an op, that’s what I want.”_

 

From the very beginning, Dalton never saw Amir’s lack of military experience as a negative.

 

So he trained hard, memorized combat protocols, and more often found his mind further and further away from the dark memories three years undercover left him with.

 

Amir runs a hand over the oiled metal and plastic of his assigned HK416; the curves and grip of the carbine are just beginning to feel familiar. He takes the time to carefully collapse the stock and attach a loaded mag as the rest of the team collects their own gear around him. Jaz shrugs by him to the weapons locker with a quick, calculating look.

 

In the little more than a week he’s been on base, he thinks he’s only exchanged 4 or 5 sentences with the sniper. She plucks her preferred short range ISR from the rack, but after a quick deliberation switches it out for the LRT-SASS she uses less often.

 

When she breezes back by him, he doesn’t even get a glare. Amir sighs. Either he’s making progress or Jaz is determined to forget his existence. He knows better than to suspect the former.

 

The mission is quick and dirty, a straightforward extraction of American hostages from armed dissidents in southern Kazakhstan. Nothing goes too awful wrong, but Amir adds 5 names he’ll never know into the kill list he pretends he doesn’t keep in the back of his mind.

 

The compound is all corners, and each one he rounds there seems to be another tango in ratty fatigues. He puts them down because they’ve been cleared to do so, and he knows there’s not enough time for less lethal methods. They have to be in and out. The more time they spend fucking around, the higher the chance the hostages get capped, according to McG.

 

So Amir puts a bullet in the chest of each dissident that confronts him, knowing that even though he won’t remember their faces, they’ll show up in his mind the next time he tries to sleep.

 

Anonymous kills are easier than most to put behind him. His list isn’t even that long; he’s sure it would be dwarfed by the list of anyone else on the team. On a covert operation, the least amount of bodied dropped is directly related to how well you accomplished the mission. A trail of corpses does nothing to strengthen an undercover identity. Here, in the company of former special forces, the difference between them is palpable. 

He finds grim comfort in the lives they were able to restore, but making peace with taking a life has always come slow for Amir.

 

Still, it’s his first mission with the team, and a successful mission brings its own satisfaction. The voices in their comm feeds congratulate them as they usher the hostages onto the bird for transport to the nearest U.S. airbase. Throughout the op, Amir absently pairs the main voices with images of the few coordinators he’s met in DC; Deputy Director Campbell has a very distinct, intense quality to her tone that made her easy to recognize.

 

Many of the voices blend into the background as Amir works, shrinking into little more than tactical instruction. There’s one though, that leaves the vague impression of interest; a woman’s voice, calm and understated.

 

Amir contemplates the voice while he muddles his way through filing his first mission debrief, if only to get his mind off McG’s disruptive snoring; the medic is sprawled across the worn couch in the hangar’s living area. Amir settles in at the communications area on the opposite end of the hangar, but the distance doesn’t do him any favors. As he logs into the team’s encryptedd server, the snores float his way through the otherwise silent space.

 

They’ve been back for four hours; enough time to grub, shower, and tumble into their respective bunks (or in McG’s case, the middle of the common area). Preach, Jaz, and Dalton all opt for that choice (considering the Chinook they hitched a ride back to base on wasn’t especially conducive to napping) but Amir is still a little buzzed on the action.

So instead of hitting the sack, he files paperwork. Dalton waves a hand as he passes by on the way to his quarters.

 

“That’ll be there when you wake up, grab some shut-eye while you can.”

 

“It’s ok Top, I just want to get into it.”

 

“First op down, not a wrinkle. You’ll be riding that high for a few days, man,” McG claps him on the shoulder before passing out on the couch.

 

 _He’s not wrong_ , Amir thinks, as he stares at the same question he’s been reading for the last five minutes. His body feels wired, despite the exhaustion beginning to set in. Local time, it’s about ten in the morning; any normal day not preceded by a 17 hour long op they might be out running maneuvers. Today though, Amir is the last man standing. McG got it half right at least… but instead of a high, what’s keeping him up is the lingering unease about what he might see when he starts to drift off to sleep.

 

The reinforced laptop hums on the table in front of him, spitting out warm air as he tries his best to fill out the official mission report. Snoring still emanates from the couch area.

 

Amir scrubs a hand over his beard and closes out the form. He knows he should go to sleep, but he dawdles at the table. Pale golden light filters in through the plastic flaps that drape over the few windows in the hangar; aside from McG’s noisy breathing, everything feels still, almost frozen.

 

Until Patton presses his cold, wet nose into the crook of his arm, and Amir jerks away, violently knocking into the laptop keyboard.

 

“ _Crazy dog_ _,_ ” Amir mutters in Arabic, reaching down to ruffle the mischievous dog’s fur. “What are you doing in here, huh? Jaz was meant to put you out before she fell asleep…”

 

Patton’s tongue lolls out as he nuzzles into Amir’s lap. Amir chuckles and gives him a good scratch behind the ears.

 

“Alright, fine. Stay while I’m awake.”

 

It takes a moment for the trill of the laptop’s comm alert to register as Amir pets Patton. When he does finally notice, it’s not without a tiny rush of panic; the comm system is telling him there’s an incoming call, and that number is DIA Operations. Amir keys the accept pattern in, anticipating to see Deputy Director Campbell appear, telling him they made a terrible mistake on the op.

 

When the call waiting screen disappears though, it’s not the bespectacled blond Deputy Director.

 

“Amir?” The look on the younger woman’s face is similar to what he’s feeling: mild alarm with a hint of confusion.

 

“Ah, yes. Yes, I’m Amir…” he says, turning to fully face the laptop. He does manage to restrain himself from grabbing the screen in a fluster, and counts that as a win.

 

“No, I know that. Is everything ok?” She’s in the Operation Command room, dark circles under darker eyes. Amir blinks.

“I, well yes. Everything is—why? It’s fine, everything's fine but why…?” He’s stammering, and he hates it. He glances toward the common area, but his concern is less than warranted; at that moment McG lets loose the loudest snore yet. The woman must have heard, because when he turns back to the screen one side of her mouth is quirked like a half of a smile.

 

“Copy,” she says, and puts something down off screen. From the clicking sound, he thinks it must be a phone. “You um, you activated a secure line. Then hung up. I thought maybe—”

 

“Oh! No, that was a mistake. The dog surprised me and I… how on earth… I must have accidentally sent that call. I apologize.” He can feel his face warming. Of all the ridiculous things that could have possibly happened, of course Patton accidentally calls the DIA.

 

“No worries. I mean, I was worried, so I guess. One worry?” The woman is smiling fully now, and Amir can’t help but return it. She sounds as tired as he does, with the same near-delirious undertone; he thinks she must have been one of the coordinators on the op. It then occurs to him that this is the voice he remembered from his in-ear feed.

 

“Well, that one worry can rest,” he answers, before something else occurs to him. “I didn’t realize anyone from command would still be in Operations. Is everything okay on your end?” Incirlik is about 8 hours ahead of DC; it would have to be two in the morning Eastern Time. She sighs and rubs the side of her neck, nodding before he finishes his sentence.

 

“Yeah. Almost everyone is gone, I was just checking up on some things when I noticed your call.” She sips from a bright green mug. “So. You have a dog?” She smiles, in an absent kind of way.

 

Amir, keenly aware of the fact Patton has now flopped himself down on top of his feet, holds back a laugh.

 

“Oh, yes. A stray. He’s made himself quite at home with us though.” Patton chooses that moment to let out a soft whine. Amir raises an eyebrow. “And also somehow knows that we are talking about him,” he murmurs. The woman laughs, and Amir all at once feels lightheaded. _I should really be asleep_ , he thinks, as his heartbeat picks up slightly.

 

“I’ll add him to the official team log, then,” she teases. “What’s his name?”

 

“Patton.” He pauses. “Dalton named him,” he says by way of explanation. He pauses again while she shakes her head in amusement. “Can I ask… sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

 

“No, it’s ok. It’s Hannah, Hannah Rivera. I’m new. Like you, I guess.”

 

Hannah is still smiling. _She’s beautiful_ , he thinks.

 

Amir clears his throat and shuffles his feet, disturbing Patton, who gives an affronted growl before settling back down.

 

“It must be late there; I’m sorry for troubling you, Hannah.” He shoots a quick glance around the hangar. “I won’t keep you though, thanks for checking in—”

 

“No, it’s alright, don’t. Don’t go on my account. I can keep talking. If you want to.” She interrupts him, and mild alarm which had initially faded from her voice is back. Amir is startled. _Something_ must be off for her to react like this. He doesn’t even know this girl, but she’s willing to continue an accidental video chat at two in the morning, 4 or 5 hours after most of her coworkers had probably left. _She doesn’t_ want _to leave_ , Amir realizes.

 

He and Hannah are kind of  alike.

 

“Sure. I’d like that,” he says, and finds himself wishing they were in the same room.

 

“Thanks,” she says, a little meek; a little shrunken into herself, like she hadn’t meant to say any of that. “I’m sorry, I—I’ve just been a little off all night. Still adjusting to being on this side of things.” Before Amir can ask, she adds, “I was CIA too.”

 

It all falls into place. They’re _a lot_ alike.

 

All of a sudden his mind floods with dark suits and blood and so much guilt he can’t see straight. He knows how a memory can cut a person from the inside out, the habits that form. Amir takes a deep, cleansing breath.

 

“Undercover?” He asks. Hannah nods, solemn.

“Mexico. It’s been 6 months, but I…” She let’s her sentence trail, but Amir knows what she means to say. What she can’t say. It’s so very clear when he looks at her, the trauma in her past. Clear in her eyes, and the way she won’t meet his right now. Clear in the way her hand travels to touch one side of her neck, where he now notices the jagged scar. “I’m sorry. Again.” Her voice is small.

 

“There’s no need for that, Hannah.” He tries very hard to pour all the empathy that is welling up in his chest right now into his voice, because she’s still looking away and he wants, _needs_ her to understand.

 

“No; I mean, here I am, a stranger trying to monopolize your time after you’ve clearly been through the ringer yourself,” she starts.

 

“Hannah—”

 

“And tonight of all nights, when you’ve just been in a literal fire fight, while I’m locked up tight safe in a damn control room—”

 

“Rivera, stop.” Amir feels his heart ache, thinking of what she must be going through; having to from the precipice of undercover work to behind a computer screen… His transition was tough, but hers was monumental. “Look, I mean it okay? There is never any apology needed for working through the pain in your past.”

 

Hannah won’t look at him, and he hates that she’s feeling embarrassed for venting in front of him.

 

He know’s he’s dangerously close to letting this devolve into some sort of enabling self-therapy session—for both of them—and this is so not the time or place, so he takes another deep breath to compose himself. Hannah does the same, and he’s struck again by how strange this whole situation is, but at the same time… oddly _right_.

 

“I think you may know a little more about my past than I know about yours, so you can trust me when I say, these things you’re feeling? I understand. I know this hurt. I hurt _for_ you, to have it in your mind, your heart… on your body.” Hannah finally meets his eyes again, and for the first time since this conversation started, the concern of waking up another team member doesn’t even enter his head. “Go home. Sleep. I will too, okay? We should talk, but not like this. I think right now we both need rest more than talk.”

 

He wants so badly to reach through the screen, over the thousands of miles between them.

 

“Amir… thanks.” Her voice is still small, but not as strained as before. He’s glad of the low quality video connection; he doesn’t want her to see how he flushes when she says his name. “Ok. You’re right. I will. I’m so…” She runs a hand over the scar on her neck again, voice becoming a little stronger. “I’m glad everything went smoothly today. Or yesterday, for you.”

 

“Believe me, you are not the only one,” he says, testing out a smile.

 

“Same here. The analysts on victimology wanted to send you all flowers.”

 

“You know, we don’t actually have so much use for flowers over here. Chocolate cake on the other hand…”

 

“Another thing to enter in the official team file: chocolate cake.” She rolls her eyes. “God, I’m exhausted. You’ve got to be, too. You’re the one out in the field.” She’s got that half smile on again. “And you’re right, I have read your file. The parts that aren’t redacted anyway.” She laughs, soft as she teases him. The same laugh as earlier.

 

The same laugh Amir is just now realizing had been the thing making him lightheaded.

 

“I’m sure it’s not that interesting of a read,” he says, smiling back. Hannah laughs.

 

“Say goodnight to Patton for me,” She shifts in her chair. Amir’s eyes never leave hers.

 

“Patton says sleep tight.” Another smile from Hannah.

 

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, and then ends the connection.

 

“I look forward to it,” he mumbles to the blank screen. Patton, having heard his name, sits up and leans heavily on Amir’s legs. Amir rubs the dog’s back, yawning.

 

He let’s Patton sleep at the end of his bunk. When he dreams, he doesn’t see cowled faces of dead men; he sees dark circles under dark eyes.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am utterly obsessed with these two. I hope you enjoyed my shipper ramblings:)
> 
> Just some background info:
> 
> Because this is from Amir's POV, I wasn't able to get into Hannah's head space as much as I wanted, and she comes off a bit needy. In my timeline, the Kazakhstan mission is set 10 days before ep1. It is Amir's first mission with the team, and Hannah's 3rd. Her state of mind is much worse than what we see in the pilot. I plan on exploring what that means, but what we see here is some pretty raw PTSD.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, sitting on the floor of her apartment in a fuzzy robe, Hannah stared at her latest journal, a green spiral bound notebook, wondering how the fuck she’d fallen so far off the wagon.

In therapy, Hannah had learned about breaking the cycle of avoidance, to confront her stressors and anxiety head on. She spent weeks writing about the trauma she suffered in Sonora, every session with her therapist talking through more and more detail; later, she practiced applying those methods to her current stressors: touch triggers, the pain of rehab, every pitying glace sent her way by nurses or agents who visited her. The key, her therapist said, was active assessment. Taking too long to admit something was bothering her only gave the negative thoughts more time to eat away at her shaky personal peace. 

 

Admit, identify, explore. It was a mantra Hannah had spent months cultivating. Months of journaling, group sessions, mindfulness. She’d done everything right. Now, sitting on the floor of her apartment in a fuzzy robe, Hannah stared at her latest journal, a green spiral bound notebook, wondering how the fuck she’d fallen so far off the wagon. 

 

_ That’s not right _ , she thought. She knew how it had happened, of course. Working at the DIA had introduced new and acute stresses to her life, but she’d planned for it. Director Campbell spent days going over declassified missions with her, giving examples and possibilities of what Hannah would be called on to deal with as a DIA Mission Coordinator; two and a half weeks ago when she first walked into mission command, she knew the job inside and out. The protocols, the statistics, the odds that every single op she coordinated would require her to hold someone else’s life in her hands as she directed them in life or death situations--

 

Hannah shoved the notebook across the hardwood floor, unable to keep looking at it knowing the last entry was dated exactly three weeks prior. 

 

She still felt raw. Helpless. Last night, she had sat at her desk after everyone else had gone home, muscles aching from tensing up every time an armed tango showed up on one of the team’s body cams. After everything she’d been through, after all the effort and will to heal, how could she be so weak? Still? Noah, the last one to leave before her, had muttered something kind yet invasive on his way out; all she could do was ignore him. She could feel bad about it later, right now her heart was racing like she’d been the one in a firefight instead of Dalton’s team.

 

Intellectually, Hannah knew the symptoms of PTSD didn’t often obey the victim’s twelve step plan for recovery. All the self-help books went out of their way to make her believe there was no fault to be found in what made someone react; that’s just how trauma worked. She’d suffered, and there would be things that brought that suffering back to the forefront of her mind. 

 

The green notebook caught her eye from where it had slid beneath the kitchen table, and she thought of all the empty pages that should be filled. Admit, identify, explore. 

 

_ Fuck. _

 

Hannah stood, shedding the robe to pull on a tee shirt and pajama pants. Other than her bed and the thrifted table and chairs, the small apartment was bare. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, draped in cloudy garment bags and a random file folder or two carried home from work; if anyone had asked, Hannah could say she was just in the middle of moving out. No one would have to know it had looked like this since she moved in five months ago. Of course, that could be explained away too-- _ Oh, I’ve just been so busy getting settled in at the DIA _ \--if she really wanted. 

 

The fact that no one had visited long enough to need it explained was a whole other can of worms in itself. 

 

Early afternoon sun shone almost unimpeded through delicate muslin curtains, the only decor she’d bothered to put up. Hannah sighed; instead of warming up the leftover palak paneer in the microwave, she ate it cold, straight from the container as she paced around the small studio. Images drifted through her mind… blood soaked fatigues, dark hallways covered in sand and dust, knives gleaming in the hot sun… memories from her past blended together with scenes from her first three ops with the DIA, blown up on the massive wall screens in Operations Command.

 

Warm brown eyes and a voice like torn velvet. 

 

She’d let Amir see what she had become. What she allowed herself to become.  _ There is never any apology needed for working through the pain in your past.  _ He didn’t see how much she blamed herself. 

 

“That’s the thing, Al-Raisani,” Hannah said out loud, gesturing to the absent man with her fork. “I stopped working through it.”

 

The green notebook mocked her with it’s bright color. Hannah tossed the empty take-out container in the trash. Intellectually, she knew he was right. Knew that freezing up for two weeks wasn’t the end of her recovery. She chewed on her lip and tried to bury the sudden urge to tear at her skin, angry at herself for letting this happen again, especially after talking with Amir had left her able to sleep longer than five hours for the first time in two weeks. 

 

_ I’m panicking. I feel panicked. I am angry. And afraid.  _

 

Hannah breathed in for four seconds. Hold for five. Exhale eight. Repeat. Amir really did make her feel better. He was empathetic in a less intrusive way than most people. His soft words came from a part of himself that Hannah knew had experienced the same type of darkness she had. True, she’d cheated a little by reading his file (devouring it, really) but it still surprised her just how open he was with it. 

 

_ I panicked because I couldn’t help. I am angry because the panic took control. I am afraid it will happen again.  _

 

Hannah moved to the window near her bed, touching the curtains, letting the material slide over her bare arm. The lightness helped. Things like soft fabric, fuzzy robes--she did better with those. Proximity to people was more gradual, but she’d been doing better with that too. Not flinching when someone touched her shoulder, or ducked in closer to discuss sensitive information. Responding with a smile and an almost normal gesture of touch back. 

 

She wondered what it would be like to touch Amir.

 

_ “Go home. Sleep. I will too, okay? We should talk, but not like this. I think right now we both need rest more than talk.” He leaned forward haltingly, as if to move through the screen between them. Hannah didn’t flinch. She surprised herself by leaning forward as well, the sudden and fleeting image of diving into his arms not setting of even one alarm bell in her mind. Strange, she thought. _

 

Hannah piddled around her apartment, antsy and itching to return to work. The required 24 hours off duty after an op that lasted longer than 12 hours positively grated on her. Alternating between ignoring the green notebook and glaring at it took up most of her time. This was the first time she’d been forced to observe the 24 hour rule; the first two ops she’d been a part of were swift, 8 hours at most. 

 

She paced. 

 

The sleep had been amazing, but now that she was awake, the pale walls she’d never bothered to decorate seemed almost threatening with how stark they were. Silence chafed at her nerves. Memories of the hospital floated up to the surface; Hannah felt her body clenching up. When pacing faster didn’t help, she picked up the notebook and a pen, flipped to an empty page and--Nothing.  _ Fuck. _

 

Hannah ran a hand up and down the scar on her neck.  _ “Patton says sleep tight.” _

A smile, slow and small, slid across her mouth. She pushed away the notebook once more, replacing it on the table with her personal laptop. A Word document will have to work for the moment, she decided. She’d transfer it to the secure server at work later.

 

_ Amir, _

 

_ Still trying to get your request for chocolate cake to go through. No one seems to take it seriously, though I remain optimistic. _

 

_ I slept 7 hours last night. Usually when I sleep that long I have nightmares of my attack, or of something going wrong with your team--one of you dying because of a direction I gave you. This time I didn’t dream at all, though.  _

_ I get scared of leaving the office. I get scared of a lot of things now, but not the things I should be scared of, like the things I see you all do. It’s the quiet, the emptiness. It’s in my apartment and it’s inside me. What you said about apologizing, you were right. I officially take back my apology. I was stuck in a “cycle of avoidance”, as the therapists would call it. Talking to you helped me break it.  _

 

_ Thank you, Amir.  _

 

_ Sending all my love to Patton, _

 

_ Hannah _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I did some research on PTSD therapy, but I don't suffer from it and I've never been in therapy for it.
> 
> Crossing my fingers Hannah is written ok. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The day after the team returns from Kazakhstan, Dalton and Preach bow out of an extra round of combat simulation.

 

“Meetings. Op Support commanders want a chat,” Dalton explains, shedding his vest. “Oh yeah keep glaring Jaz, that’ll make a difference.”

 

The team is clustered around the staging area just outside one of the base’s training compounds--an empty warehouse set up with targets and routes to simulate a multitude of combat operations. Amir is more than appreciative of the practice, but seven times through the building in less than two hours may be pushing it just a little.

Jaz rolls her eyes before hefting her HK above her shoulder.

 

“Fine; I’m headed to the range. McG?”

 

“Nah Jazzy, can’t. If I leave now I can make the noon muay thai class.” The medic pats her on the head, dodging nimbly to avoid the punch she aims at his shoulder. He laughs as he jogs back toward the hangar.

 

“Just keep your beeper on you, yeah?” Dalton calls after. He and Preach stack their vests and collapsed HK’s into the trunk of their jeep parked nearby. Amir unloads his weapon, locking the bolt release to clear the chamber, the movements already becoming second nature. He considers for a moment following McG into Adana, but to reach the nearest mosque inside city limits, he’d have to leave like McG without changing. Better to take time swapping his fatigues for civvies and go to the smaller mosque just off base for salah.

 Jaz shrugs and sets off for the range, without even a glance toward him. It’s not as if she was in the habit of including him, so the snub doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. Expected, sure, but Amir still feels a little twinge of hurt. Preach gives him a knowing look, and puts a hand on his shoulder as he passes.

 

“Good work today. You’re getting better with that carbine.” He and Dalton drive off soon after, but Amir does feel lighter.

 

Back in the hangar, he feels a little less light gazing at the small mess McG left behind in search of his gym bag. The chaos is at least partially organized, with the search seemingly concentrated in the storage area beside the communications desk. Amir moves around a couple boxes and picks up a few displaced files; he’s never found clutter especially conducive to a stable work environment.

 A check of his watch shows he has half an hour to spare, so he showers and changes quickly before returning to the communications area. It’s been a normal day so far, relatively laid back in terms of compulsory activities. The simulated combat had been the only thing really on the list, something they go through after every op; setting the training compound protocols and targets as close to what they saw in the field, combing through every battle decision to see if anything could have been done differently, done better.

 Amir’s shoulders ache from the heavy body armour. He rubs at them between lifting the last misplaced boxes. When he’s done, he stands by the desk, wondering why exactly he can’t bring himself to walk away.

 

_“I’ll be in touch,”_

 

Her voice in his head is sudden, though not unwelcome. Chances are, the echo of it had been in the back of his mind the whole time, just waiting for him to notice. It’s easy for Amir to picture the young woman, Agent Hannah Rivera. _Maybe too easy_ , he thinks, face warming as he remembers the way her mouth turned up at the side, how the dark circles under her eyes didn’t seem to detract from her beauty. Beyond the physical, something about her that makes him feel calm, anchored. Like he can pour out his soul like a steaming cup of tea and instead of judge him, she might just thank him for the warmth. He remembers how tense she looked, the panic that had settled into every feature. Her fears were real, and very present, no matter how tightly she’s locked up in that control room.

 Amir finds himself sitting at the desk, hands moving on autopilot. He actually makes it so far as to checking the secure link to to DIA before he surfaces from whatever reverie he’d fallen into. He shakes his head and steers the server to his email, as if that’s what he planned on viewing the whole time. It’s nearly noon, and he doesn’t exactly have time for it, but he scrolls through anyway, slight embarrassment keeping up the charade more than actual need.

 

Then he sees the subject line _Chocolate Cake_.

 

He reads her message four times. There’s a smile on his face that won’t go away, and something stuck in his chest that feels sharp. He doesn’t quite know how to classify it, but it hurts, and everytime his eyes ghost over the words ‘my attack’ the feeling gets sharper. Amir has absolutely no idea how to respond. He knows about nightmare, about guilt. How can he make her understand that living with those things doesn’t make them broken?

 He shuts down the computer. His head should be in a clearer space before he replies. Breathing deeply, he finds walking away from the desk is just as hard as it was telling Hannah to leave and get some sleep the other night.

 

Amir retrieves his prayer rug from his bunk, and heads out toward the mosque

 

* * *

 

_Hannah,_

_I am glad to hear from you. The news about the chocolate cake, while disappointing, is good news, simply because it comes from you._

_You mentioned your attack; I know you have probably spoken about it more times than you would care to count, but if sharing it with me would help, I am all ears. Patton is as well, if that makes any difference. In fact, I have noticed him hovering around the communications desk more than once in the last few days. I think he misses your voice._

_So, since you have read my file, I am sure you noticed the list of therapies I went through upon returning from Algeria. I was undercover with ISIS, as you know. The guilt of it nearly drowned me, especially when I got back. When I was under, I found it easier to allow myself to dissociate rather than dwell on the truth of what I was doing. After three years, the habit remained, and remains still. I try my best to live in the present, but often the shadows return when I sleep. When we spoke the other day, I was also in the middle of one of those...cycles of avoidance, as you called them. You must have helped me as well. My dreams were free from shadows._

_I hope to hear from you again soon, if only to know we might both look forward to another good night’s sleep._

_Amir_

  


The email reply came quicker than she’d expected. Hannah felt a smile tug at her lips just thinking about it. She stirred a little creamer into her coffee, wrapping her fingers around the quickley warming mug. It was quiet in the break room, but as she made her way back into Operation Command, the hustle and bustle settled back in her chest, comforting in it’s constant volume. In the day and a half since the office had resumed normal activity, everyone had been consumed with moderately boring ‘maintenance’ work; debriefs, victim follow-ups, logging interrogation reports… most of the analysts and technicians were accustomed to this type of thing, even the military liaisons in their camo fatigues. The endless forms, briefs, and information packets were what the DIA lived on between operations.

It chafed at Hannah to absolutely no end.

She sipped her coffee and scrolled through a strategy report she’d been tasked on approving before it was sent to Deputy Director Campbell. A small groan escaped her as she noticed the page count was 32.

 

“Thought you liked being back at work,” Noah muttered from across the aisle. He’d been overseeing a group of Infrastructure and Resource analysts, prepping for a some weekly meeting. If the stacks of files cluttering his desk were any indication of the type of meeting, Hannah was grateful not to be a part of it. She stretched in her swivel chair, trying to find the sweet spot that wouldn’t cause her muscles to seize up.

 

“I do. I’ve just been sitting here for hours; I don’t know how you cope with not _moving._ ” Hannah kept scanning the files on her screen, a small pang of guilt overshadowing the ache in her lower back just briefly. _You can’t handle the dramatics of an op, you can’t handle the monotony of paperwork--what are you good for?_ The biting words formed in her mind before she could stop them. Hiding a grimace behind a cough, Hannah pulled out her phone and made a notation in her new ‘intrusive thoughts’ list.

 

“Do I _really_ look like someone who needs to _cope_ with not moving on a daily basis?” Noah drawled, pulling another handful of file folders out of the messenger bag at his feet. Hannah chuckled and started to reply, but was cut short by Deputy Director Campbell.

 

“Noah!” Patricia strode between their desks, not slowing down even as Noah gave a small, startled yelp in response. “Collect your ducklings, we’re up.” A moment later she was out the door. Hannah gazed wide-eyed after her boss. The woman was a force of fucking nature.

 

“What meeting is this again?” She asked as Noah dumped a handful of usb drives into his bag.

 

“DCS Informative Session,” he answered, then added drily, “It’s just as fun as it sounds.”

 

Hannah almost laughed again, but his longsuffering sigh as the ‘ducklings’ grouped beside his desk stopped her. They all shared the same harried, nervous look on their faces.

 

“Knock ‘em dead, Morgenthau.” Noah shot her a grin before heading out after their boss.     

 

Hannah sait back and sipped her coffee. Of all the coworkers she’d met, Noah seemed the most intent on becoming her friend. _Well, if I don’t count Amir as a coworker, that is…_

A small thrill went through her at the thought. She hadn’t replied to the email. It felt more like an after work type correspondence, so she’d spent the last six hours just thinking about it. He was charming; that much had been clear from the short time they’d spoken three nights ago, but in writing it was more pronounced. The sincerity and openness with which he shared his past were also still present, still captivating. Writing the email in the first place had been mostly reflex; she hadn’t quite expected the reply she got.

 

_And what a reply it was._

 

The day full of paperwork left Hannah feeling mentally drained. She’d kept better track of her train of thought than she had in a while, jotting down ugly things, anxieties when they pushed through her brain. Knowing she’d be on the hook for examining them again once she got home made her dawdle a little more than usual.

She stopped at the gym, thankful for her go-bag’s well rounded contents. Mentally she was drained, but the buzzing energy that tended to fill her as she faced an evening alone in her apartment was already beginning to spread into her legs. _And other places_ , she thought, before valiantly pushing _that_ particular shit show out of her mind.

The treadmill hummed beneath her, ambient and rhythmic. _I just needed to move. I’m not useless._ Hannah thumbed the speed control higher and quickened her pace. Her calves tensed. She pushed harder. _Sitting is useless. Typing reports is useless, not me._ Sweat ran down her temples. She upped the speed again, then the incline. _Oh fuck off, it’s the job you signed up for. It’s part of it now._ Hannah knew arguing with herself probably wasn’t the healthiest manifestation of self reflection, but she was here now, so why not. _Reports are necessary. This job is necessary. Finding it boring doesn’t mean I’m useless._

 

_I’m not useless. I’m not useless. I’m not useless._

 

Hannah hit the shut off  button when she realized she was nearly sprinting.

 

* * *

 

_Amir,_

_There was so much paperwork today. I felt guilty for sitting around. Do you ever do that? Does the guilt ever take that form for you, I mean? There was nothing I could do physically during the op, but at least I was involved somehow. Now it’s like we’re just waiting for something else terrible to happen. And I couldn’t even handle that._

_How are you so open about what you’ve been through? I don’t talk about it unless I’m in a therapy session. Except to you, strange enough. I was undercover with the cartels in Mexico. I made a bad call and ended up cut to pieces on the side of the road. There are shadows in my dreams too. The shapes are different, but they always have knives. They always come at me from behind, and I always feel so damn cold, even though when it happened it was the middle of summer._

_Tell Patton he doesn’t have to miss my voice. Phones exist, and I’m sure you could help him dial._

_Hannah_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been one week since Kazakhstan. Six days since Amir first saw Hannah’s face in lagging feed on the cracked laptop screen, since he felt his heart stutter in his chest when she laughed and he pretended it was all sleep deprivation. When he thinks about it he cringes, because the alternative is letting the swirling warmth in the pit of his stomach evolve into something more concrete and _that’s_ a path he definitely doesn’t want to think about right now.

It’s been three days since her latest email, and Amir doesn’t think he’s ever been more annoyed with himself. Because the warm thing inside him when he thinks about her won’t go away, and to make matters worse he’s completely at a loss as to how he should respond. Fretting isn’t his default setting; the hum of indecision does not set comfortably in Amir’s body. He’s much more used to deliberation, contemplation--ways of approaching an issue that don’t make him feel like an insecure school boy, but here he was. Head propped in a palm, haunting the kitchen well after the rest of the team had turned in for the night.

Amir sips at a mug of tea, feeling just guilty enough that he doesn’t really enjoy it. He frowns. It seems so counterproductive to feel guilty about not responding to an email. It’s not as if he’s spent the last three days languishing on a beach, ignoring the laptop for fun. The team trains non-stop, incorporating Amir seamlessly into every possible protocol and maneuver, until he knows his role backwards, forwards and upside-down. There’s hardly time in the day for a sit down meal, much less spending hours huddled in front of the computer trying to compose the perfect response. Amir knows himself well enough that if he did try to type something up, he wouldn’t stop until it was perfect. That’s just who he was.

So instead, he steels himself, gets back to work, and wonders why he hasn’t put it all together before; the details Hannah’s email reveals about her attack, also reveal that Amir does know her, in a way. He may have never thumbed through her file, but inter-agency rumors circulate through the CIA like they do everywhere else. During the time he was transitioning agencies, in the middle of all the interviews, evaluations, and paperwork, Amir remembers hearing about another agent whose NOC assignment ended in a much more bloody way than his did. There were whispers about a horrific attack, the details of which he’d stayed away from, feeling that being party to the story would be in invasion of privacy, voyeuristic in knowing the darkest nightmare of someone else. He’s never wanted to know.

 

Until now.

 

Now that he’s put a face to the nightmare, seen the edges of the scars that came from it. Heard the halting fear that it left in her voice. Hannah had suffered something altogether unimaginable; that she was willing to share any of it with him was incredible. If he could, he’d take all the darkness from her heart and add it to his own. Amir’s shadows were different than hers, with their knives and cold chill. His was a whole life lived in three years, a wicked chasm in his reflection that reminded him of all the people he hurt, the wills he broke. His were vicious. His were killers.

 

_Not so different after all._ A chill runs through him as he realizes this.

 

Hannah asks him how he can be so open with his past, but he doesn’t think he’s been open. He thinks he’s said a couple of the right things, shown that trauma and nightmares don’t have to be the end, but he hasn’t been open. If he really thinks about it, truly thinks about what it would be to open himself up to her… he’s terrified.

There’s only so much that can be written down in a file. You can’t fit the agony of someone who’s son kills himself and twenty two other innocents inside a file, nor the terror of a woman chained to a chair in front of you.

Amir draws a shaky breath. The last thing he wants is to give Hannah yet another shadow to haunt her dreams.

 

“Do you ever sleep, Amir?” Preach ambles into the kitchen, weaving slightly with sleep still in his eyes.

“I wish I didn’t,” Amir mutters. Preach makes a sound of acknowledgement and fills a canteen with water from the sink.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your mind.” His voice is nonchalant as he turns to face the table, but Amir can tell a vigilant man when he sees one.

“A little more than usual,” Amir allows, leaning back in the chair. He scrubs a hand over his beard. “You?”

“Oh, nothing too terrible; two of my baby girls had a ballet performance today,” Preach answers before taking a long draught from the canteen. Amir watches him smile, wondering what it’d be like to have special moments happening every day like that, and missing them.

“I’m sorry you had to miss it.”

“My wife promised to send video,” Preach shrugs, “And I don’t think it makes much difference to my girls anyways, they got to many recitals and performances and games that everytime I apologize for missing one thing, they just roll their eyes and say ‘it’s not the only one, daddy’. Then they make sure to ask for a new pair of jeans.” Preach chuckles, eyes far away for a moment. Amir smiles at the image of three mini-Preach’s rolling their eyes and waving him off.

“They sound like fun.”

“Oh, they are, until they start ganging up on you with those puppy dog eyes.” Preach shakes his head. “The worst thing is when I forget to call. They don’t like being ignored,” he adds, meeting Amir’s eyes with an ambiguous look. Amir raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure,” he says, not sure at all.

“But then when I do finally call, even if I’m nervous they may be angry with me, everything ends up working out.”

Amir gazes at the big man with a mix of shock and suspicion. He doesn’t know what to say. Preach smiles and begins to head back toward his bunk.

“My friend, you’ve been staring at the comm desk for the past 3 days,” he says as he passes the table. “It’ll work out.” And then he’s gone. Amir groans to himself.

 

_Good to know I was being completely obvious._

 

Weirdly, Preach’s comment helps. While the situations differ, the sentiment remains. Amir is hopeful. He re-warms his tea and heads to the laptop.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannah’s whole body ached. The scars on her back throbbed, dull and insistent, until she turned her focus and ice pack from her knee to her back. Even as pain passed through her, Hannah grinned, feeling more at peace than she had in weeks. Almost as good as she felt after she first spoke to Amir.

She’d been at the gym every night for three days, re-discovering an old method of self-therapy. Hannah put in hours, pushing her body to the limit while making herself practice active assessment. She wrote down her intrusive thoughts on paper, setting them smack in front of her face at every machine she used. While she ran intervals on the treadmill, she repeated her fears in a low voice, body so caught up in the movement that the strangling anxiety didn’t have a chance to form and make her freeze up. Every twist and turn on the mat, every rep and set on the free weights gave her positive mantras a rhythm, gave her body purpose.

After her stint in the hospital, Hannah’s only contact with the gym had been her physical therapy sessions. Muscle work to tone back what had atrophied, retraining her body to do its job after it had been broken. Back in college, exhausting herself physically with a workout had been a mega release. The endorphins, the sweet ache in every single cell… better than any drug.

The attack had robbed her of that release. It was two months before she was able to manage a fast walk on the treadmill, three before she was cleared to lift anything more than body weight. By that time, Hannah had found other outlets, like meditation, her therapy sessions, even a few yoga classes.

Hannah laid back on her bed, languid and sighing. She’d missed this. The fatigue and soreness in every limb, reverberating up her spine when she flexed her back; bare legs twisted up in a thin blanket, skin soft from the fresh shave and coconut lotion… it was like being young again, back before she’d faced down death, heartbreak.

Hannah shivered a little in just underwear and a soft tank top before burying herself more deeply under the duvet. The material sliding against skin conjured up images of the other outlet she missed: sex. She hadn’t been with anyone since her attack, still focused on working through her touch and proximity triggers. Sure, she could hug someone now, shake their hand, kiss a cheek, but she had no idea what becoming intimate with someone might elicit.

_Hopefully an orgasm…_ Hannah sighed again, knowing that whatever her hopes would be for such an encounter, she was still hesitant to actually buck up and try it. God, did she miss it though.  

Music drifted softly through the space between her bed and the table where her laptop was open to some relaxing playlist online. The bed creaked a little as she wriggled and stretched in time with the beat, taking time to enjoy the feeling on her skin running against soft sheets. Deciding to go full out with the ‘self-care night’, she’d lit several rose and lavender scented candles around the small studio earlier, and after her shower had actually spent almost an hour in a bubble bath. The music was the final touch; she’d gone back and forth on the final playlist, and now, without the tension of the past few weeks filling her, another, different tension was starting to seep in. Hannah hummed a little as she sat up, contemplating.

The playlist she’d almost settled on was a little more… well, the title was literally like ‘bedroom jamz’ or some shit.

 

_Might as well._

 

A quick switch, and she crawled back into the bed, rolling her hips with the new, silkier beat. She didn’t plan on doing anything more than dozing to the music, maybe hoping for a satisfying dream or two. Hannah buried her face into her pillow, stretching like a cat.

A few relaxing breaths later, her mind started to conjure up another body in the bed with her. Nothing too specific. Just solid, present. She imagined reaching to touch him, fingers ghosting over warm skin. Soft lyrics bid her to continue as candlelight flickered over the place where her phantom guest would be. In her wandering mind, a hand caressed the side of her face, sliding down to skim over her scars; instead of flinching, Hannah leaned into the touch. She imagined pulling him closer, skin on skin, warmth enveloping her from the inside out--not quite a blaze, but smoldering all the same. Testing herself, she made her ghost lean in to place his lips where his hand had been, just beneath her jaw. Eyes closed, she felt the roughness of a beard on her skin along with soft breath.

 

Unbidden, Hannah arched into the imagined contact and exhaled, a name on her lips.

 

The ding of her laptop alert shocked her back into reality, where she was alone in her bed, aroused and bewildered at who she’d inexplicably been thinking about. She slid out from under the covers, breathing deep and shaking her head with purpose to get her mind back under control. With the spell broken, the sex playlist sounded almost foolish as she clicked into her email, where a new message had caused the alert to chime. It must have been forwarded late from her work server, because the timestamp was off about 3 hours. When she saw the name on the message, Hannah had to shake her head again. _Wild_ , she thought, barely holding back a smirk.

 

_Hello, Amir._

 

* * *

 

 

_Hannah_

_I know what you mean. My guilt takes many forms, as I am guilty of many things. Sometimes just the fact that was able to get up and leave the life I built--a whole life, a whole person-- after three years while the people this person hurt remained… Sometimes that is my biggest regret._

_That’s the job though, isn’t it? We create a face, do our duty, use that face to take advantage of people. Sometimes those people are innocent, and we still have to hurt them. This is why I want to apologize; I’m afraid I haven’t been as open as you think, nor does my file explain everything._

_Your last message made me realize that I’d heard about you before, to some degree. Your assignment in Mexico saved countless lives. If I could thank you in person I would, but maybe you could settle for over the phone. Let me know when would be the best time, I know this time difference thing is not ideal._

_I hope it’s soon, Patton has been practicing his dialing._

_Amir_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully Hannah and Amir are still believably in character.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5

_Amir_

_This Saturday. Around 11AM eastern, 7PM for you, if that works._

_I’ve killed people too, innocent people; I know hearing that from someone else doesn’t do much to ease the guilt, and I know that you’re not just talking about killing… torture, maybe? Like what I went through? I can separate what was done to me by low level cartel enforcers from the sacrifices you (both of us) had to make while doing our duty, Amir._

_I want you to know that I feel stronger than I have in a while. Your fear of what might surface if we start sharing our pasts with each other makes sense, and it’s because of that fear I know we should._

_Believe it or not, I was just thinking about you when I got your email._

_Hannah_

* * *

“You seem chipper today, Rivera,” Markwell said, smoothing down her service khakis. The Navy liaison looked on curiously as Hannah smiled and continued typing away at her report. 

 

“Just looking forward to the weekend,” she answered. Markwell’s eyes narrowed.  


“Sure. Aren’t we all.” The hum of Operation Command wasn’t any different than a normal ‘maintenance’ work day, but Hannah felt a distinct difference in the energy. Or maybe it was a difference in her own energy; either way, the sounds which just a week ago had filled her with anxiety now fueled a calm resolve that made her feel like she could take on the world.

_Maybe not the world. A small country. Half a continent?_

It wasn’t just that she’d thickened her skin, though that was certainly part of it. Her outlook had changed; it wasn’t about just surviving, just checking the boxes and leaving them behind. The battle still raged inside her chest, still frazzled her nerves, but she didn’t look at these as failures. Now, they were something that could be overcome.

  
“Amen, sis.” Hannah knew Markwell sensed there was more at play than just anticipation of the weekend, but she couldn’t bring herself to tone down whatever vibrant thing that had been lit inside her. Markwell propped a hand on her hip and gave her a look.

  
“Hmm, yeah. Who is he?” Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, contributing to the severe effect of her military uniform. In sharp contrast then, was the knowing smirk plastered over her mouth.

  
“Why does it have to be a man that’s got me in a good mood, Markwell?” Hannah questioned, smiling wider, unwilling to bend to suspicion.

  
“Well, I mean, that blush for one…” Markwell laughed. Hannah felt the warmth flood her cheeks.

  
“No idea what you’re talking about,” she said, heart beating only just noticeably faster. “But psychologically speaking, people automatically blush when accused of it, so…” she trailed off, not exactly sure the science behind that claim was sound. Markwell grinned.

  
“Only when there’s some truth behind the accusation, Rivera.” The Navy officer’s beeper went of, pulling a scowl from behind the smile. “Oh, god. I’ll see you later Rivera. This is ridiculous…” Markwell muttered to herself before hurrying out the door. Hannah worried her bottom lip, wondering if Markwell was right. How much truth was behind that statement? How much of her improved mood was due to Amir?

 

Two days later, Hannah unfortunately had to confront that question head on.

 

She’d not heard back from Amir since the last email she sent, and just when Saturday morning was getting too close for comfort without confirmation, Operation Command was called in. By the time Hannah arrived at the DIA, the ground forces team were assembled in Incirlik, about to deploy to Damascus.

The op flowed like a standard kidnap for the first four hours; Hannah analyzed the NGO from top to bottom, ignoring the nagging agitation that flooded her stomach.

_It’s just stress. About the mission._

  
She shut it away, along with the vision of a certain pair of dark eyes and crooked smile. It was hard enough to focus on the present with the same face staring at her from the body cam ID screen, static and unsmiling.

  
Of course, as soon as she’d managed to reach her ideal level of calm detachment, Dalton had the bright idea of letting Amir work Akmuti from the inside. No matter how good Amir was, no matter how logical the plan was, Hannah found fear rolling through her mind. She tamped it into doubt and indignation, things that could be used to raise an argument in her current setting.

 

_“Amir. Ready when you are,” she said, her Arabic practiced and sharp._

 

This wasn’t the contact she’d been hoping for today. All at once, she was back to being helpless, on the hook for a man’s life. If she screwed up, made a bad call… the possibilities were endless, and none of them positive.

But Amir was good, and she found her fear draining as she spoke into his ear, the mere knowledge that he was hearing her, that he trusted her to guide him spurring her forward.

 

_“Now I need blood. Cut me.”_

 

Hearing those words in Amir’s mouth made Hannah clench her jaw. _Fuck his commitment._ But he was right. She knew what was needed to sell this as well as him. _Doesn’t mean I have to like it_ , she thought. As the faux interrogation continued, Hannah pulled back emotionally. Distance would be the only thing that would keep him safe.   
Moments later, she was forced to test her theory.

 

_“He just put up something sharp against Amir’s carotid.”_

 

Hannah expected the panic that rushed in, but not the fury. She counted down the blocks to the compound through gritted teeth, imagining taking the knife or broken bottle or whatever the fuck Akmuti was threatening Amir with out of his hand and plunging it into his own neck.   
  
_“Two blocks,”_ she said, voice rising an octave. _Don’t you fucking dare…_

  
Later, she would reflect on the violence that had been her immediate reflex. In the moment however, she took grim satisfaction when Jaz made her shot.

_  
"Pulling over for pickup.” _

Hannah yanked out her earpiece, relief settling her rage and pulling the fear back once again. The rest of the op was just as much a roller coaster, but once the Baghdadi came into play, the trigger was out of her hands, so to speak. The anxiety ebbed, and the detachment returned; it was Dalton’s show now. She put the analysts under her through their paces, perma-frown etched into her brow at every new development.

 

It ended with a boom, and Hannah couldn’t say she was mad at it.

 

After she’d cleared the team’s departure with Patricia, Hannah’s job was done for the moment. Medical and debrief would take at the very least 8 hours, so she headed headed home. From start to finish, the op was on the quicker side, topping out at about eleven hours and at only about 5PM Eastern Time. After the early start and gauntlet of emotions and stress, Hannah was exhausted.

As she drifted into sleep, the vision of a certain pair of dark eyes re-appeared in her mind.

 

* * *

 

 _Hannah,_  
  
_Knowing you had my back today helped keep me sane._

 _Thank you._  
  
_Amir_

 

* * *

 

She should have known it wasn’t over. Nearly two days after Damascus, another boom threw Hannah’s life upside down.

  
It was sweet that Patricia wanted to check in on the team; the drone may have been a bit excessive, but Hannah couldn’t care less. Not when she was seeing Amir run around a beach with his team and a gaggle of kids, hat on backwards. She thought of the short message he sent her, the shortest yet, but maybe the one that meant the most.

In the time since the op ended, Hannah waited patiently for the other shoe to drop; for the debilitating stress to take over her body as she returned to work. It didn’t. Instead of anxiety, there was clarity, her body returning from the weariness in the same way it did after an intense workout. The rhythm she’d set in the past week continued, and the shadows stayed away.  
  
“Retask the drone to quadrant 6.”

She sipped from her mug, much like she had that first night she met Amir, aware of the slow, secret smile spreading across her face. 

Then the truck. A curiosity, until it veered off the road toward--

“Get me Dalton,” she commanded. “Now, now, now!” Panic ripped through her. _No, please, no._ The connection to Dalton’s phone stuttered as it went unanswered. “Get off the beach,” she murmured. Desperation made tears form, but she didn’t blink. Couldn’t. The drone feed showed the people on the beach turning and running, but compared to the speeding truck, it looked like they were moving through molasses. _They’re not going to make it._ Adult figures stooped to carry the children, others waving their arms and yelling. Hannah willed them on, eyes fixed and body frozen. Her last thought before the truck detonated was one name.

 

_Amir._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so literally I just realized I completely glossed over the whole arc of Patricia only just getting back to work in the pilot after her son died. I feel terrible for not addressing it, but I put her in chapter 3 (which in my timeline is like 3 days before the pilot). It still happened in my timeline, just maybe a little earlier.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one.. I wish I could stay focused enough to make them longer for you guys. 
> 
> This chapter has some blood and death trigger warnings. Nothing too graphic, but definitely more than normal.

His ears still ring from the beach. The suffocating press of the combined adrenaline and fear lingers in his chest, lessening each hour he spends in medical. There are still streaks of half-wiped away blood on his arms from carrying the wounded to the ambulances in the aftermath, before McG stops him, yelling through the chaos and tugging him towards one of the trucks. It’s only then Amir realizes some of the blood running down his shoulder is his.   
  


Amir’s breath stutters. 

Assured by the surgeon that the shrapnel hadn’t hit anything vital, McG clears Amir to be stitched up without general anaesthesia. He’s told he’s lucky. He remembers the head wound on a child he placed in an ambulance, how light the child was. How young. Amir doesn’t think any of this is lucky. He sits in the sterile exam room on base, thoughts sluggish after the pain of being worked on for an hour. On a tray to his side, small metal shards from the truck sat in a round dish, still coated in his blood. When his forearms clench at the sight, he grimaces with discomfort; the skin on over his deltoid pulls against the tight stitches.

It’s nearly 0700 local time. After the initial rush of transpo, Amir insists McG wrap up his wound, refusing to be seen by the base doctors until those in grave condition were taken care of. 

 

_ “Amir, this isn’t the time for--” _

_ “Top, I’m fine. I can help.” Something on his face must have made Dalton realize this was more  than reckless heroics. Amir drifted in and out of the waiting room, consoling those he could, praying for those he couldn’t. It wasn’t his duty, but the staff seemed to see the same thing Dalton had, letting him help where he could. Around midnight, McG stopped him in the hall. _

_ “Look bro, you’re stable now, but you don’t get some rest like now, I can’t tell you how long you’ll stay that way.” So Amir let himself be led to an empty cot. _

 

When he wakes after a fitful sleep, he gets stitched up and left to wait to be discharged. Dalton is hovering around the corner, on the phone with DC by the sound of it.

“Unchanged. Yeah, we all made it relatively unscathed. Some scrapes and bruised ribs, McGuire fractured a wrist; Amir might have caught the worst--shrapnel to the shoulder. Yeah, he’s patched up now…”

Amir blinks, head filled with ghosts. He replays the explosion, and then other explosions, from two years ago in Algeria. The white walls of the hospital fade away into an empty lot filled with rubble where a small clothing store once stood. Instead of sharp and sterile, the air was suddenly hot and dusty, laced with the smell of blood and bodies bloating in the sun. Amir squeezes his eyes shut against the invading memory, but it won’t go away. It clings to his mind, pulling him down towards the everpresent pool of guilt. Other failures chafe at him, squeezing his lungs, re-living themselves behind his eyelids, crawling inside his skin. The bombings he couldn’t derail, the plans he’d had a hand in making that shattered lives… The blood he’s spilled is warm on his fingers; directly involved or not, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he held the gun, if he pushed the detonator. 

“Local authorities. Yeah, the 39th is sending their own people. We’ll get it sorted, Patricia. I will. You too.” Dalton’s voice inside the room snaps Amir from his waking nightmare, and not a moment too soon. With a deep sigh, Dalton scrubs a hand over his beard, looking exhausted. Amir opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“No more helping, you got that? Rest. That’s an order, Amir.” Dalton’s voice is stern, but there’s no venom behind it. Just weariness. He and Preach escort Amir back to the hangar, before heading to meet with the base commander. The beach incident has brought the 39th Security Group out in full force; as they drive, Amir notices more activity in and among the barracks than usual. 

 

Jaz greets him with a softer look than he’s ever received from her. She’s at the sink, absently fiddling with the faucet that’s been leaking, but when he walks in she stops. He can see in her face the shock that still lingers, the look that is probably mirrored in his own. Later, she’ll cover it with cool outrage, but now it’s still too soon. In the early morning quiet, faint snores can be heard from the direction of the bunks, and Amir assumes McG is getting some much needed rack time.    
Her eyes zero in on the careful way he walks through their small armory into the kitchen, on the awkward way he holds one shoulder lower than the other. As he drifts closer, she fidgets like a spooked animal, and he knows she doesn’t want to be around him right now, maybe not around anyone. The way Jaz deals with grief is new to him, and often varies so much he doesn’t know what to expect. 

“How’s your…” She jerks her chin at his shoulder, quiet voice enough to startle him out of the persisting dark reverie. 

“All patched up,” he answers. “You?”

“Bruised ribs are nothing.” For a flash he sees brazen, amiable sniper in the corner of her almost upturned lips, the one reserved for Dalton, McG and Preach. The one who never appears to Amir. Almost as soon as it registers, it’s gone, but what remains is still not the normal uninterested glare. “You uh, you did good out there. With the kids, helping,” she continues, visibly uncomfortable. When she starts to edge toward the bunks, Amir nods.

“So did you,” he says simply, sincerely. Her lips quirk again, then she slips out on those ninja feet Dalton is alternately curses and praises. 

 

Amir knows he should follow her example and head to his bunk; his body needs sleep to heal, and if he doesn’t want to be grounded for the next mission, he should seriously consider sleeping for the next four days straight--at least, that’s what McG had advised.    
But sleep means darkness, and dreams he’s not ready for. Dreams worse than the faces of people he’s killed, which he thought didn’t exist. Dreams of children, bloody and broken in his arms. Dreams of ash and sand and fear that he can’t get out of his eyes or throat. 

He sees the video link alert before he hears the beeping. Dalton must have left the laptop open after his pre-dawn conferences with DC; the screen is lit up again, and Amir knows it’s Hannah before he even starts walking toward the desk. He keys the accept code before he’s seated, and when her face appears he knows that was a bad idea. Now she has to watch him grimace as he settles into the chair, gingerly avoiding touching his back to it.

“Amir,” she breathes, and he absolutely wonders how he ever thought he knew what his name sounded like before hearing it come from her lips. He shifts in the chair, taking in the pronounced dark circles beneath her eyes, the ponytail her hair is swept up into, the conspicuous lack of makeup that makes her seem so much younger. For a split second, his heart forgets the beach, and aches for an entirely different reason. How many hours has it been since the bombing? Since he’s sure she watched it happen on her screens in DC?

 

_ How long has she been waiting there? _

 

“Hi,” he says. There are so many thoughts in his head, so many questions. It’s almost midnight there. Hannah exhales sharply, eyes running over his face and shoulders with such intensity it was like she was in the room with him. Against all odds, she’s smiling; it’s faint, but definitely there. 

“You look terrible.” The comment is an understatement, but he finds himself smiling back all the same. She seems relieved, fear draining from the tensed muscles around her eyes and mouth. 

“I could say the same to you.” He’s not sure if they’re close enough for this, but it’s an automatic response, and he figures she’ll let him know if he’s being rude. He’s surprised then, when she laughs, a little thing that’s half strangled in the way she brings a hand up to her mouth. Then he sees the tears, unshed, glittering in her eyes. “Hannah…” She blinks them away before he can continue

“When Dalton checked in earlier I overheard. About the shrapnel. I wasn’t sure--I mean, I knew nothing was life threatening, but I still--” She catches herself rambling. “I’m just glad to see you,” she whispers. Amir feels that strange little ache in his chest again.

“It’s nothing,” he says, uncharacteristically gruff. “Compared to everything else, it’s actually pretty tame.” He doesn’t much like the way her eyes light on his then, like she can see straight through to the haunted soul of him.

“We got the numbers from the 39th,” she says, still quiet, as if waiting for something. “Numbers though… they aren’t quite real. Not like there.” Those brown eyes of hers, ocean deep and darker than the depths; Amir nods slowly, then the tears come. He hasn’t shed any up until now. Now, facing a woman across the planet who in two minutes has made him feel safe enough to break. And he does break. The sobs come too easily, and he doesn’t try to stop them. He holds his head in his hands, sagging into the desk, letting the images cycle through his mind. The smell of death, the blood on his arms, the cloud of smoke above the wreckage. 

“I’m here, Amir. I’m here with you.” He can’t see her through the tears, but her voice floats among the agonies, helping the grief flow. Amir’s shoulder throbs. He imagines her touch then, on his shoulder, his face. Her arms around him. 

 

She stays there while he cries, until he’s let himself break more completely than he has in a long time. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, I've been maintaining a playlist for this fic on Spotify; it's not in complete chronological order, mostly just a collection of themes/emotions I have or plan to incorporate in the fic:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/hannahcardinal/playlist/6wyx8jKHF9icXEBrhIfV7r


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